


In His Kiss

by guns_and_poses



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Kissing, M/M, Post-Empty House, Post-Reichenbach, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-08
Updated: 2012-02-08
Packaged: 2017-10-30 19:32:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/335295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guns_and_poses/pseuds/guns_and_poses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For this prompt: Can I get some fic of John and Sherlock just kissing? Maybe a while after The Reunion, and they've settled back into a routine, and John's just happy to sit and appreciate and get the same vibes right back from Sherlock.</p>
<p>  <i>Both men were smothered by anguish not so very long ago. But in each other’s arms they dilute that thick, constricting grief, disperse it with eager mouths and comforting hands...</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	In His Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> **Spoilery for S2 E3** Written for this prompt: “Can I get some fic of John and Sherlock just kissing? Maybe a while after The Reunion, and they've settled back into a routine, and John's just happy to sit and appreciate and get the same vibes right back from Sherlock.”

 

 

 

They lie together on the narrow sofa, in the last hour of what has been another long but exhilarating day. They are relaxed into the shape of each other, a fit that’s already familiar and yet still new.  
  
In the darkened room, John’s eyes remain on the telly, even when he feels Sherlock prop himself up on his elbow, lifting his head from where it had been resting on John’s chest. John senses Sherlock’s intense stare sweeping over him, and he gladly lets himself be studied, once again, lets his features be retraced and rewritten and restored inside Sherlock’s mind.  
  
It’s not long until Sherlock’s hand joins in the task. Slender fingers meander over John’s face, following lines that have been sorrow-hardened by his nightmares of eyes that were grey and strange and blind in death, by his misery of being dragged clawing and crying back into a bleak loneliness from which he had once escaped.  
  
As they have done before, Sherlock’s fingertips soon make way for Sherlock’s lips, and John feels kisses pressed to his forehead, his temple, his cheek. John finally looks away from the flickering screen, and for the idle effort of simply allowing his eyes to drift closed he is rewarded with a reverent kiss upon the delicate curve of his eyelid.  
  
John feels a kiss... then another... and another... against his neck, his jawline, his chin. He turns his mouth swiftly into the path of the next one, captures Sherlock’s lips before they can find another place to play at being coy, before they can sneak into another crook or hollow, before they can vanish altogether into another faraway hideout or false grave.  
  
Sherlock makes a low, surprised sound, parting his lips with a quiet inhale and a willing tongue. John grabs for him, shifts in gentle movements until Sherlock is settled on top of him. He reaches up into Sherlock’s hair, slides his hand through it and catches one broad curl to gently twist around his knuckle before releasing it and seeking out another. They kiss with intensity but little urgency, time now something they guard for one another in large measure.  
  
John can’t quite keep a smile from emerging on his lips. He opens his eyes when he feels Sherlock pull away to look down at him with fondness shining bright in his steady gaze. And oh yes, _there they are,_ as they should be, grey and strange, yes, they always have been, but alive with piercing sight. John pulls Sherlock back down and kisses him hard, steals Sherlock’s breath and forces him to draw another to release strong and warm against John’s cheek.  
  
It’s a subtle reassurance, but it’s enough. Unlike _then,_ the early days after Sherlock’s return, when John’s hands felt compelled, ensnared, pulled like a magnet over and over again in a frightened fumble for both Sherlock’s neck and Sherlock’s wrist until... there... and there... _right there_... two points of contact through which John could feel the telltale strum of Sherlock’s life. Tonight his hands feel free, at ease, his palms sliding from Sherlock’s sturdy shoulders to the small of his back, moving over him out of sheer pleasure and affection.  
  
Both men were smothered by anguish not so very long ago. But in each other’s arms they dilute that thick, constricting grief, disperse it with eager mouths and comforting hands and murmured vows, the closer they press together the more their world re-expands around them. It reserves no space for bitterness or bad dreams. Only spirited bickering and daring adventure. Only drawn-out touches and deep kisses, devotion promised in every caress and embrace, trust recovered with each brush of lips and whisper of breath.  
  
John no longer wakes up searching frantically for pulses with his trembling hands. He no longer needs to hear explanations or apologies. All of that has faded into the past. What he dreams of is _now._ What he needs is _right here._ He can feel it. In Sherlock’s kiss.

 

  



End file.
